Flowers

In the desolate green boredom of pain's hothouse, flowers surround my heart

with their nasty stems. When will the dear hands return to delicately

untangle them from round my head? The tall purple Iris cruelly violated your

eyes by seeming to reflect them. They were the pools of reverie into which

my dreams softly dove, absorbed by their colour. And the lilies, white jets

of water with perfumed pistils, have lost their white grace and are but poor

invalids who do not know the sun. Sun! Friend of evil flowers, dream-killer,

illusion-killer, holy bread of miserable souls! Come! Come! Saving hands!

Smash the windows of lies, smash the windows of evil spells, my soul is

dying from too much sun! Mirages! Joy will never flower again in my eyes and

my hands are tired of praying, my eyes tired of crying! In an eternal crazed

noise, the black petals of boredom drip constantly on my head in pain's

green hothouse!